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Poetry Critique Thread
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Poetry critique thread boys. Post your work and let others review!
Vapid blocks of grey littered
The vast stretch of green fields.
Sheets of shining glass
Fillled the now decadent curves
Of once heavily laboured land.
In the far distance, solitary
Cattle grazed their lives away.
Upon this scene of tired
Ulster sat a little fellow:
A blackbird of honest voice
Who sang soft melodies of
Playing children and dying men.
This harbinger of happy days spoke
And for a moment I thought
That not all in this world
Are blind to the beauties of life,
And I myself was not alone.
But as the sun declined
And the moonlight rose,
We both returned to our affairs.
La sirène du train perce l'air froid d'hiver.
Il crache sa vapeur jusqu'aux nues cotonneuses.
De loin, il admire des volées de piverts,
S'élançant comme un coeur qui voit ses amoureuses.

Les peltées de charbon brûlent d'un feu ardent,
Alors le chauffeur sue sa douleur et l'oublie
Et remplit encore le foyer débordant,
Car le train ne connait la vigueur affaiblie.

Que suis-je d'autre qu'un diligent train sans freins?
«Tu seras tourmenté, tu ne seras serein.» --
Ainsi me parlai-je -- et aussitôt me crus-je.

Sous la lune jaune, je glisse et tousse et crisse;
Je vais vers un pays très lointain, un refuge
Que je n'atteindrai pas, malgré mon sacrifice.
C'est bien.

Par contre, ca s'écrit pelletée.
Bravo, j'aime.
>vigueur affaiblie.
Un peu étrange, l'image est peu parlante au premier abord

>Sous la lune jaune, je glisse et tousse et crisse;
Je vais vers un pays très lointain, un refuge
Que je n'atteindrai pas, malgré mon sacrifice.

C'est très beau.
Joli sonnet. Le rythme a travailler, un peu, peut être ?

Non parcequ'on ne le peut
mais parcequ'on ne le veut
ni les zeppelins ni le concorde
ne fendront plus en deux les cieux

Ou êtes-vous aéropoles,
hautes tours perdues d'opaline?
Ou sont les machines sublimes
et leurs divines auréoles ?

Minuit et quart
Un ingénieur presque mort
faiblit un instant et renait
dans un costume d'entrepreneu

(un autre)

je m'imagine qu'on m'enterrera
dans une robe d'apparat
après deux mois de deuil mondial

Mon cœur tressaille

Derrière les anneaux de saturnes
a bord d'un céleste convoi
un enfant tourne a la page
et pense a moi.
Are you asleep or just lying in wait,
your face resplendent like an anglerfish's bait
beckoning in the depths of tenebrosity
or perched on unreached spires of the city
that dares not know your pale complexion,
adorning the couch of a backstreet flat.
>Par contre, ca s'écrit pelletée.
D'après mon dictionnaire, peltée n'est pas complètement incorrect, mais critiqué.

Merci pour les commentaires.

Pour ton propre poème, la mise en page semble poser problème. Le poème serait immédiatement plus agréable à lire avec toutes les majuscules, les accents et les signes de ponctuation.

>ni les zeppelins ni le concorde
>ne fendront plus en deux les cieux
J'aime bien ces deux lignes.

Tu semble essayer de faire rimer aéropôle (aeRopol) et auréoles (ɔReɔl), ce qui marche plus ou moins selon l'accent.
These threads have become graveyards of french memes.
Then post your shit.
Now tell us, what do you want us to take from your quintessentially bland and noiseless poem?
it is the small things
that make my heart sing
and remind me of why
I'll love her till I die
there may one day be another
but my heart will always have a piece of her
Some older shit I wrote a while back

I think
My biggest fear is
That one day
I'll realize I'm
That I'll just continue
To exist as a static point
and watch everything
Waste away
and I'll waste
and I'll rot
and I'll continue to exist
Until everything heats
and evaporates
and I'll continue to exist
In space as a vacuum
Filled with memories
Until I overflow
and second by second become overwritten
Until I forget what time was
What love was, what life was.
I'll become filled with the perception
Of absolute emptiness
and I'll continue to be
Wasted, filled, immortal
I become a tired empty husk
Filled with time and the leftovers
of memory and other things that
Were meaningful
The universe around me
Will spread out to chaos
and join with me
and I'll become the universe
Every atom existing as me
and then when I exist as everything
Having forgotten what I was
I'll be aware of true nothing
I'd rather stop now than fear the massive isolation
I'd rather die now than face being immortal
I'm already wasting yet
I'm still here
Shouldn't free verse have more panache, less schtick?
Writing this as I type.

Do you know how many times I've stared through you and thought
This is the end
But I've felt the weight of what that meant and I've thought
I'm too young to die
So I turned away and when I faced you again
I let you think I was just silly and life was plain
But today.
It was so gloomy all day today
The snow was meant to come but never came
What's the point of winter without snow
What's the point of you and me
But I'll turn away
And you'll never look up
And we'll spend the rest of our lives
With each other
Because we're meant to be.
one of my first poems, i stopped writing old timey garbage but whatever

Inertia is a killing clutch
A counter-wind to keep a ship
In port, with captain swearing loud,
“Away from here! Away I must,
I will not linger on to dust
To lands ere dimly known I’ll fly,
To live, to love, or else – to die!”
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There's no key to tune a bongo
Except a bongo key
And there's nothing to fill my heart
But that spring
The path overgrown
Where did you come from,
Vengeful thickets?
Why do you obscure
What once was clear
And dear to me?
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Que la vida iba en serio
uno lo empieza a comprender más tarde ¬
como todos los jóvenes, yo vine
a llevarme la vida por delante.

Dejar huella quería
y marcharme entre aplausos ¬
envejecer, morir, eran tan sólo
las dimensiones del teatro.

Pero ha pasado el tiempo
y la verdad desagradable asoma:
envejecer, morir,
es el único argumento de la obra.
Outcasts in gangs become
their dead, old foes who they
wanted to rid their home
of. Hell is where they play
pretend Washington and
cry “Wrong!” and then disband

to set views against yours.

Their friend is he with curled
horns, cloven feet, knife tongue
and flipped view of the world.
They’ve air in ev’ry lung
and choose to use it wrong.
They sing the reverse song.
Damn that's good.

Bout time I read something that moved me on this board.

Grandfather Clock

I saw you in the mirror, Jacob,
there was three of

You held your grandfather,
naked and loose,
his arm draped over your shoulder,

weak from sickness.
My husband, your father,
statued the other side.

I saw it all in the mirror, Jacob.
You grew older, then,
in front of my eyes.

Tick-tock swings the pendulum.

I didn’t dare walk in, I paused,
the bathroom tiles wet with blood.
The men’s room, occupied.

But I saw, through the mirror in the corner of the guest room,
blood of my blood,
dead lifting.

He cracked his nose,
making eggs in the morning,
trying to be, useful.

He crawled to the bathroom,
on his hands and knees,
our guest, your father’s father.
You found him in the bathroom,
bleeding, naked,
or was it your brother that found him?

Please remind me, Jacob.

Arbitrary! As your father is,
as you seek to avoid.

Arbitrary! As he peters out,
naked on the floor.

Know this, Jacob,
you are he, mirrored.

He died cooking eggs, Jacob,
do not die, cooking eggs.

The cancer was in his blood, Jacob,
it ate his blood from the earth.

He was a doctor,
knowing what ate him.

Knowing what hollowed him out, the
whole time.

Do not die cooking eggs.
Promise me.
Promise yourself.
Thread replies: 19
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